


Mirrim Musing

by nnozomi



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: Gen, Mentorship, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:05:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nnozomi/pseuds/nnozomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone had an opinion that season in Pern, and the two of them shaped hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirrim Musing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astrokath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrokath/gifts).



Mirrim swung her legs thoughtfully from the tree branch. She was really getting too old to be climbing trees—even, or especially, the big fellis tree in the yard—but every once in a while it was nice to scramble up and sit among the sweet-smelling leaves for a while, peaceful and private. She could see everything that happened in the courtyard, and nobody could see her.

She freed one hand and fingered the new leather patches on the shoulders of her tunic. Brekke had made her sew them on, saying otherwise the firelizards’ claws would leave Mirrim and the shirt both in shreds, since the two greens did insist on sitting on her shoulders. Right now all three were sleeping off a feeding, curled up in Canth’s lee with Brekke’s Berd and F’nor’s Grall, but she expected them to pop out of air any time and hoped they’d be quiet about it when they did.

F’nor wouldn’t be at Southern much longer, she thought. She’d been Brekke’s apprentice long enough to know his arm was nearly well. What would gold Grall make of chilly northern Benden?

Mirrim sighed, fluttering the leaves which brushed her cheeks. She had distinctly mixed feelings about F’nor’s return to his home Weyr. She liked him well enough, of course, he was always pleasant to her and, now he was better, took care of himself instead of expecting all-hours nursing the way some of the wounded riders did. And he didn’t go dangling after Kylara.

The way Brekke looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching, though…that made Mirrim uncomfortable. She liked Brekke brisk and on top of things, the way she usually was, not with that funny wistful look. If F’nor made Brekke change that way, Mirrim wasn’t sure she wanted him around.

Then again, while F’nor was at Southern there was always a chance his Weyrleader might come here once more. Mirrim felt her cheeks heat as they’d done yesterday, remembering how she’d panicked when F’nor brought F’lar into the Weyrhall. She’d heard plenty of the Benden Weyrleader, everyone had, but she hadn’t expected him to be so… . Mirrim had gone to bed that night imagining she was Lessa, confusing the firelizards. She’d like it if F’lar came back to Southern, even just one more time. Maybe the next time Thread fell. She wouldn’t expect him to talk to her, of course, but she’d like a chance to show him she could be as efficient and collected—and brave in Threadfall—as any grown Weyrwoman.

She would be old enough to stand on the Hatching Grounds in a few more years, if there was a queen egg somewhere. More often than not these days, holdbred girls like that Kylara or craftbred girls like Brekke were the ones to Impress, but Mirrim was pretty sure she could ride a queen dragon. She’d Impressed three firelizards, hadn’t she? More than anybody else.

But she was weyrbred enough to know that all your problems didn’t end when you Impressed. She wouldn’t want to be a junior Weyrwoman somewhere, having all the work to do with no thanks for it, being bossed about by someone like that Kylara.

As if the thought had summoned her, Mirrim heard the Southern Weyrwoman’s high voice from the clearing below, answered by Brekke’s softer alto. Automatically she tucked her legs tighter along the trunk and then grabbed a branch above her head, swinging out at an angle to get a clearer view.

“…I’ve places to go today, so you’d better see that…” in the usual sharp tones. Mirrim tuned her out deliberately, something she’d gotten very good at in the last few Turns. Kylara’s heavy blond hair caught the sunlight, shimmering as she tossed her head. She wore a white blouse embroidered in green and gold, probably hours of old Rannelly’s fine sewing—Kylara herself would certainly never have the patience for finicky work like that. (Not that Mirrim was so fond of sewing herself.) Next to the Weyrwoman, Brekke’s curly dark head and plain rust-brown tunic seemed to blend into the earth and trees.

Mirrim looked at her free hand, the palm—barred with scrapes from tree bark—almost the same cream color as Kylara’s skin, the back (with the thin pink line of a burn across the knuckles, where she’d been careless with the pots yesterday when F’lar and F’nor came) coppery-dark, half a shade lighter than Brekke was. Maybe if she ever lived up North for years on end, away from the Southern sun, her skin would fade paler, but it wasn’t as if she wanted to look like Kylara. That Kylara had probably never gone near a stewpot in her life, let alone burned herself on one.

She prodded experimentally at the front of her own tunic, an old dark green one, where the worn fabric stretched a bit. Was she going to end up as big in front as Kylara was? She could do without that, but it wouldn’t be so bad to have a bit more than Brekke did. Brekke looked nice that way, of course, she wouldn’t have her own Brekke prettiness if she was built like Kylara, but Mirrim didn’t think she herself could carry that off.

Why did it matter that much, anyway? It had to be for Kylara’s looks that all those men ran after her, it couldn’t be for anything else when she was so mean and nasty. (Except for Pridith’s mating flights, but that was the dragon, not Kylara.) T’bor was a good Weyrleader, Mirrim thought authoritatively, always courteous to Brekke (her first criterion), good in the sky at Threadfall, attentive to Weyr business. What did he want with someone like Kylara? Anybody sensible would choose Brekke, or even Varena out at West, who laughed a lot and flirted with all the riders but also worked almost as hard as Brekke did to help the Weyr and the wounded.

Maybe all the sex stuff really did make that much difference. Weyrbred Mirrim couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t known what riders did together when dragons mated, not to mention at lots of other times. Some of the holdbred weyrlings were really funny about it, acting shocked at things that were just plain common sense in the Weyr, but they’d learn.

K’mar was learning, all right, she thought with a private grin. He was a brown weyrling from the last clutch, a couple of years older than she was, but so shy and naïve you’d never know it. His father was some minor Holder from Nerat, who’d expected him to Impress a bronze and end up Weyrleader; the other boys hadn’t expected him to Impress at all, because he was so timid and awkward. He’d split the difference with a brown, and was shaping up into a decent rider.

Also decent at kissing. Mirrim didn’t think she wanted to do sex yet, but learning to kiss with K’mar was sort of fun. She could close her eyes and pretend he was…anybody, but she didn’t mind having him there when she opened her eyes, either. They had to be more careful now that she had the firelizards, of course, the little ones would lead Brekke to them in an instant, without even meaning to. Not that Brekke would be really angry…as long as Mirrim wasn’t neglecting her duties to go kissing. Unlike _her_.

No matter how many riders she kissed, she’d never be like Kylara! Mirrim vowed that to herself, watching the Weyrwoman stride out of the clearing toward Pridith’s weyr, her heavy green skirt curling around her legs, while Brekke moved in the other direction. She’d never be that nasty to people, or leave her duties undone so others had to do them.

On the other hand, much as she loved Brekke, she didn’t want to be exactly like Brekke either. If she were Brekke she’d never let Kylara talk to her that way; she’d snap right back at her, tell Kylara to do some of the work herself, and if the Weyrwoman wouldn’t listen she’d go to T’bor. It was only fair. And if she were Brekke, she wouldn’t watch secretly after F’nor; she’d go right up to him and ask him to be her weyrmate, or…or whatever it was she had in mind. (Canth couldn’t fly Wirenth when the queen rose, of course, but with a junior Weyrwoman it wasn’t as if that would matter.) Yes, if Mirrim were Brekke, she’d be just a little bit more like Kylara. It was like making a stew for the Weyr: if you put in too much pepperherb you’d feel like a dragon with a mouthful of firestone, but the stew didn’t taste as good without just a handful of those crisp dry leaves.

The firelizards ought to be waking any moment now, and there were bandages to wash and fellis draughts to brew. Mirrim jumped down from her branch in one neat movement, setting up a little puff of dust as she landed, and set off for the Weyrhall.

**Author's Note:**

> As the content should make clear, this takes place during _Dragonquest_ , between F'lar's visit to Southern Weyr and the Telgar Hold wedding. I don't remember if we ever learn Mirrim's exact age in canon, but my guess is she's about thirteen here.  
> Just so you know, I am not your assigned writer, this is by way of a treat ;)


End file.
